


It Takes Two

by jeweniper



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Tango, also sorry for using a quote as my summary I just couldn't? Think of anything else?, dance, if i just shrug my shoulders will you let this slide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5957140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeweniper/pseuds/jeweniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's about being in the moment, with the music; and responding to your partner...it's a very concentrated thing; you can't think about anything else while you are doing it." -Alan Lee</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Takes Two

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for a kyouhaba tango au last night, and then promptly talked myself out of it. This morning, the fic informed me that it intended to be written, so here we are. It's been a long time since my beginner tango lessons, so I hope my understanding of the dance isn't glaringly wrong. There are many ways this idea can be written ~~better~~ but here's mine. Also why do I like them dancing/touching/having general chemistry so much? Well, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> P.S. "slow, slow, quick quick, slow" is the count/steps for tango

Yahaba glimpses the stranger again and his stage-smile falls like a capsizing ship, annoyance burbling through the cracks as he cranes his neck to get a better look. He’d walked into this studio with dingy walls and scuffed flooring about half an hour ago, and this asshole with the bad dye job and heavy liner had been scowling at him for almost as long. But he isn’t here to stress out, and it’s messing up his form.

Slow, slow, quick quick, slow.

Accidentally fumbling the turn, he gives the dance hall a quick sweep with his eyes. Watari, the friend who dragged him to this class, glides near the front with a petite girl sporting loose pigtails. His manner is a bit soft for tango, but you can tell at a glance that they’re connecting well, their footwork is strong. It’s something he’s been doing for twice a week aside from being in the going-home club with Yahaba at school, and he’s gotten rather good at it. The rest of them seem primarily made up of unfortunate passerby that got snagged by the black-haired beauty manning the reception desk, hence the dearth of female partners.

For example, the double-male pair in the corner. They’re doing all right, arguably. The lead grabs presence more with his vegetable-esque hair than anything else, but he’s making a good effort. Meanwhile, his partner seems content to be shuffled across the floor, and though his body moves well his expression is somewhere between too tired and six degrees unimpressed.

Yahaba returns his attention to his own dancing and leads his partner into a right turn from the promenade. At least, that was the plan. Instead he jolts to a graceless stop while she confusedly continues down the line. They chuckle nervously at each other, a step too far apart, and then wordlessly regain their form. Yahaba can read people, sure, but he can’t really connect with them the way Watari can. He isn’t really that warm. Hence coming to the class today, Watari said it could help, tango being a dance of heat and passion and all that. Or whatever. He releases a sigh from barely parted lips. New song, same dance. New situation, same politely tip-toeing around anything that breathes. He may as well be dancing on his own. It doesn’t matter.

Slow, slow, quick quick, slow.

“Stop the music!” Somebody barks from the front, making him jump. He swivels around to see the jerk that’s been eyeballing him all lesson, crossed arms straining and mouth a deep frown. A regular delinquent, basically. He’d likely been roped inside like the rest of them and, entirely too frightening to have snagged a partner, had been glaring at Yahaba the whole night. Locking eyes with him again awakens some sort of ugly gremlin in Yahaba, filled with unreasonable irritation and bit-biting pettiness. And it looked like it was going to have a chance to shine.

“What do you want?” He drawls across the studio with a challenging confidence he doesn’t possess. The guy is over in three smooth strides, kicking a thumb at his partner and—still—glowering at Yahaba. “We’re both tired of your shitty leading.”

His lips clamp shut and his eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling fan in surprise. He’d expected something more irrelevant, maybe an uninspired dig at his wonderful hair. He turns to the short strawberry blonde, who grins sheepishly at him, saying nothing. His hands go clammy and he gulps what must be molasses wrapped in fresh mochi. They stand in silence for a moment, discomfort settling in his stomach like cool ash. But this time he can pinpoint the cause. Heart itching under his skin, he turns back to the intruder.

“Try it with me,” said intruder demands, body poised to dance.

Yahaba’s brain stutters to follow the line of logic, and fails. It irritates him. “Why, so you can experience my ‘shittiness’ first hand?” He means to leave the dance floor. Without his permission, his body completes the hold. “Only if I get to lead.”

The blond snorts. “Assuming you can.”

At some point during this exchange, the instructor must have called for a change in partners for all and restarted the music, but Yahaba must admit that he didn’t hear a word of it. Rather, he thinks of the mutual annoyance simmering between them, lighting embers of _something_ beneath the ash.

When the count begins, Yahaba steps feeling like he’s been pulled forward by the other. It’s a sensation that persists through the first few counts and it has him gritting his teeth. A follower should follow. He leads with a little more force after that. Sure, it’s something he wouldn’t normally do in a class he only intends to attend once, but something about this unruly upstart makes him want respect—the kind any normal person would probably give on principle. When he whips into the turn, his partner resists just slightly, pulls back, and Yahaba turns to scold him only to see that it has widened their stance and strengthened their form, solidified their balance.

“Keep your eyes forward,” He commands without sparing Yahaba a glance. Annoying.

He sinks into his steps more and ignores how much everything about this kid gets under his skin, how the roughness of his hands is as comfortingly familiar as a childhood workbench, how much more synchronized they feel as opposed to him and his last partner. But they fight for control in the promenade. And in how to turn to follow the line of dance. Not to mention the strain whenever Yahaba shows the slightest weakness in his hold…wow okay, so he really can’t tell if they work well together at all.

But he won’t lose to someone who glares at strangers without shame, and he knows his partner isn’t about to bow to him for no reason. The understanding fills him with an undercurrent of agitation, though the hint of smile on his face would tell a passerby of something else. He can’t let his mind wander too much with a demanding partner like this, trying to balance control.

Stay on tempo. Tango is a love-hate relationship. Slow, slow, quick quick, slow.

When the lesson finally comes to an end, Yahaba has to admit that he’s breathing a bit heavily and that a sense of satisfaction accompanies the emerging ache in his calves and arms. He also can’t remember the name of his first partner for the life of him, which he feels a bit bad about. He sneaks a look over at his current partner, who has done nothing but stand next to him with loosely balled fists since the last song’s final note. He meets Yahaba’s eye, ever-present scowl softened somehow, unless Yahaba had just gotten used to it. He bites the inside of his lip, then opens his mouth to speak.

“Kyoutani. See you next week.” The other interrupts, with a curt nod and a turn towards the cubbies. Yahaba stands stunned for all of three seconds before realizing that he had been interrupted and also not re-evaluated on his “shittiness” as a leader. Another strike against this Kyoutani. He relives the dance in his mind, attaching the name to the angry face. A nice fit, he decides.

“So,” Watari begins, slapping a hand on Yahaba’s shoulder and giving him the third startle of the night, “you had fun, huh? Coming back next time?”

He gives his friend a withering look and wrings his fingers. Would he consider that fun? He doesn’t really feel comfortable when dancing with Kyoutani. “I don’t know…” But out there on the floor with him, aware of his presence stretched away with a taut string of defiance, he didn’t feel exposed. “I guess.” Besides, he still needed to make him say that he wasn’t a shitty leader. Best not to over think it.

It’s something to do.

Tango is a love-hate relationship.

Slow, slow, quick quick, slow.


End file.
